Burned (Dragon Mates Book 3) Page 4

  At over a century old yet looking like a very fit man in his early fifties, Eamon had learned a lot from dragon shifters in his years of serving them. He'd also picked up the extra layers of protection that all fealty family members gained during their many years of service and loyalty to dragon shifters. That meant that right now, he actually was faster than Ash. He flipped out of the way at the last second, though Ash's blade did catch him on the elbow.

  Eamon's arm shook from the contact. He snarled out an oath.

  Struggling to get enough air to speak, Ash managed, "You didn't get enough exercise on your vacation, Eamon. You're getting sloppy.”

  Abruptly, Eamon laughed. He relaxed back into a casual stance as he rubbed his elbow with his free hand. "I didn't have much time for exercise.” A small, private smile crept onto his face.

  The tone of his voice was so full of a quiet yet distinct joy that Ash felt equal parts pleased for his old friend as well as faintly jealous. Pushing aside the unbecoming emotion that only revealed his shortcomings, he opted for teasing instead. "Oh, is that why you needed the next day off, too? Because you didn't have time for exercise. I see how you are.” He gave his fealty man a pointed waggle of his eyebrows.

  He was rewarded by the sight of Eamon turning bashful as he studiously examined his elbow.

  Ash's eyes widened suddenly as a genuine grin slipped across his face. "Oh, I do see. You really like her. I'm glad for you, Eamon," he added seriously. A smile of faint remembered pain flitted across Eamon's face, although genuine contentment mostly shone through. Eamon's wife, a woman who had been like a second mother to Ash, had died in a plane crash many years ago. Ash had long thought Eamon might never love again, but a member of another fealty family had caught his eye at a large gathering of dragon shifters last year. It seemed she might indeed be the one to bring some joy back to Eamon's life.

  “Yes. It's a good thing.” Eamon's smile still playing around his lips. Then he leveled a keen gaze at Ash. “It would be for you, too.”

  Hmm. Ash's dragon softly bugled in his mind. Turning, Ash headed to the small wooden stand that held the practice swords. Placing his down on it, he turned to the wooden chest beside it and worked open the lock. "I don't think so. Going to the Institute by myself was a mistake. I startled a woman there. A beautiful woman.” Just the thought of her made him pause for a moment. Her gorgeous features danced through his memory. Despite himself, it brought the faintest of smiles to his lips. Eamon caught that, eyebrows raising. But Ash frowned as the next memory of her aghast gasp echoed through his mind again as well. “She about had a heart attack when she saw my face. ”

  Eamon tapped thoughtful fingers on the hilt of his sword. “Interesting. Would Nicholas have known who she was?” Eamon's expression was still gentle, but questioning and pointed.

  Ash felt his face harden more. “That part of my life is over, Eamon. And I didn't need to bother Nick with asking. Why inquire about a woman who reacted to me as if I were more frightening than even the hunchback of Notre Dame?” The bitterness slid through his voice again.

  Heavy silence was the only response. Firmly ignoring the vision in his head of burnished red hair atop the most devastatingly beautiful face he'd ever seen, and definitely ignoring his dragon's fiery huff, Ash shut that all away. Time to focus on what he could control. Hopefully, that is. Carefully, he opened the lid of the chest. Stepping back, he gave a satisfied nod at the sight inside it. A stunning ancient sword, recently restored to its shining glory, gleamed up at him.

  Yes. That right there was what he had left to live for. It was enough. It had to be.

  Eamon stepped up beside him. Making an admiring sound, he looked down at the shining gold symbols etched into the otherwise silver metal of the blade. One was a classic Celtic cross, with an added flare indicating that it had been made to be wielded only by dragon shifters. The others were ancient Ogham letters proclaiming the weapon's name, and finally an obscure dragon rune over which they still puzzled to decipher. “What a find, Ash. It will help you as soon as you begin using it."

  Ash nodded. Pushing aside the unbidden thoughts of the strange woman, ignoring his dragon's oddly plaintive whuffle of sound as he pictured her lush curves visible even beneath the baggy practice clothes she'd worn, Ash reached out to run light fingertips down the flat part of the blade. Edged with smaller runes that few eyes in the modern world would be able to understand, let alone grasp the significance of, the sword was a magnificent piece of personal history.

  “Nicholas outdid himself," he murmured. "Again.”

  "He always does," Eamon said agreeably.

  Nicholas Brenton was one of Ash's oldest friends, along with Sebastian Bernal. The two of them had been present during the darkest moments of Ash's life, but he honestly couldn't remember those moments since he'd lost consciousness then and for a few weeks following the incident that had scarred his body and turned him into a recluse. He knew they both felt faintly guilty for the event, despite the fact there was nothing either one of them could have done to prevent it, or to help him heal any more than he'd been able to.

  It had been a dragon tournament, Ash had caught the bad end of a charring flame during a bout, he was now scarred for life. The end. Yes, they had been there for it, and yes, they'd been his literal wingmen. Yet it still wasn't their fault. It wasn't even the fault of the other competing dragon shifter whose flame had blasted along the exposed right side of Ash's body. These things happened on occasion. Risks were taken at tournaments, and everyone there was well aware of those risks, although they were not common. No one was to blame.

  Even so, Seb and Nick both had done everything in their power to help Ash regain at least some items for his gold hoard in the hopes that it would one day allow him to restore both more physical strength as well as the full gamut of his dragon shifter powers.

  Being a dragon severely injured was one thing. Dragon shifters could find a healer and recover fully. But being an injured dragon with a hoard lacking its full size and strength? That was disaster. That meant a dragon shifter with injuries could never regain all he'd lost.

  Ash was truly scarred for life. Luckily, the slow acquisition of a few choice items for his gold hoard would restore greater power to him and, hopefully, some of his own strength as well. Like all dragons, Ash had a gold hoard. It was the source of his power as a dragon. His was lacking, unfortunately. To add terrible insult to already traumatic injury, a few key pieces of Ash's hoard had been stolen before he was burned. Their loss ensured that Ash had not healed properly. Despite both Eamon's and Sebastian's quiet inquiries, no one knew what happened to those pieces. They'd almost certainly been sold by the thief on the underground black market to another equally unscrupulous dragon shifter looking to increase his own hoard's power.

  It was part and parcel of being a dragon shifter. The power struggles and gold hoard thefts were a regular part of their world, just the same way tournaments were. It had been Ash's terrible luck that he'd been injured when his hoard was so badly diminished.

  Ash had slowly collected new gold to add to his hoard, which helped to a small degree. But if he were ever to truly heal, he'd need the stolen pieces of his original hoard to be returned to him.

  Or for this long-lost sword of his ancestors to unlock its magic for him.

  Repairing the sword had been a part of Nick's attempt to help him if at all possible. This sword in particular was an astonishing find. It had belonged to the ancient line of Connolly shifters. Ash's illustrious ancestors. Just finding the sword had been a boost to his hoard. His being able to use it could only increase the unseen magical connection that shifted power to all dragons from their hoards. Most pieces of a gold hoard were carefully locked up, kept safe by a spell warding cast over them.

  A sword, however, could actually be used. Some dragon shifters still used them in private organized duels, fought only when in human form. Using a sword the way it was intended helped transfer power to the dragon to whom it belonged. E
specially if it hailed from that dragon's own family.

  Thought lost centuries ago, this particular sword had somehow found its way to a human antiquities trader in England, who in turn had bought it from a local human family who'd apparently had the sword unknowingly stashed away in the attic of a great aunt who'd died not long ago. When they'd cleaned out her house to put it on the market, they'd discovered the sword tucked into the very wooden chest that held it now. They'd sold it to the local antique store, and the shifter trader who'd then discovered it in turn had received a princely sum for putting the sword onto the shifter-only market.

  Ash had paid through the nose for it, which was irritating considering that it had belonged to his family originally, but that was simply how things worked in the constant maneuvering between shifters for power. Naturally, he'd bid privately, using a proxy at the actual auction. No one knew he now had it, aside from his closest friends. Although he had been forced to buy it as part of a lot, the additional cost had been well worth it.

  The sword had come with two equally ancient books. One was currently at Seb's famed museum, The Bernal Center, being repaired by one of his junior conservators. That book was a mere adjunct to history, blandly titled The Book of the Near Hills and pretty much about just that: page after page of small, cramped writing that described in infinitesimal, excruciating detail the rocks, trees, hollows, peaks, ponds, lookout points, windswept crags, and even more merciless minutia of the hills nearest the town in which the learned Irish monks who had penned the thing lived. Since the town also happened to be the one from which Ash's ancestors had hailed, he'd decided it should be kept as part of his collection simply for posterity's sake. As it had little more to offer than being a very minor footnote to history, he hadn't minded it being repaired by a junior conservator rather than the head of the department, who would usually stabilize and restore any damaged books that came into Ash's possession.

  The other precious book, however, rested in a magically warded case in Ash's personal library. That one was the true treasure.

  In nearly pristine condition, though it did have some pages that needed repairing, The Book of the Dragonborn was written by and for dragon shifters, written almost entirely in runes undecipherable to most human eyes. It was bound to the sword and described the history of some adventuresome Connolly forebears. Most likely, it also held magically hidden pages that would be visible only to shifter eyes, as did many ancient books kept in dragon families. Ash felt extraordinarily lucky to have had both the sword and book fall back into Connolly hands. He had yet to crack the magical code that kept the book's secret history still hidden, but he studied it every day.

  If those pages could be released to his shifter-enhanced view, he might gain some insight to recovering his damaged powers. It was a very long shot, but he had nothing but time to spend on it. In the meantime, the sword definitely held great power, being from his very own lineage. The more he used it, now that its loosened handle had been repaired by Nick, the more he would increase his strength and even some healing.

  “All right then." Carefully yet firmly, Ash picked up the sword out of its case. He literally could feel the hum of its power as he held it in his hands.

  His earlier fit of pointless anger now abruptly overtaken by a surge of hope as well as a renewed burst of energy, Ash walked back out into the middle of his training room. Tucked into a side wing of the new house he'd bought several months after the accident, since he realized that his old place held too many memories he didn't remotely want to deal with, the training gym had become a daily visited area. He gently closed his left hand around the handle of the sword.

  The fact that he had to use his left hand had been no small part of the issues he'd run into during his long, painful journey toward recuperation from his injuries. Ash was right-handed. Since it had been the right side of his body that had caught the worst of the charring, he'd had no choice but to relearn everything from his left side. Aided by the strength and encouragement of his dragon, the process had gone far more quickly for him that it would have for most humans.

  Even so, it sure as hell hadn't been easy. Still wasn't, in fact.

  Eamon watched him with a quietly pleased smile. "Go on, then,” he said in a casual voice. “Just a couple of practice jabs. Nothing too intense just yet.”

  Ash nodded, testing a light swing with the sword weighted in his left hand. His moves were still awkward enough that it felt faintly sacrilegious to hold this particular sword with his less accurate hand. Yet he was the only one who would be able to do so and release the true power of the sword. Eamon, although imbued with more powers than any average human would ever see in a lifetime, was still not a dragon shifter and never would be. More importantly, he wasn't a Connolly.

  Swords like this one had been made to be held and used only by certain shifters. Although Nicholas had worked with the sword while he restored it, he hadn't actually used it the way a sword should be. He hadn't truly practiced with it, certainly hadn't fought with it. Its powers weren't meant for him, either. This amazing piece of craftsmanship had been made for a Connolly to wield.

  It was all on Ash to prove himself truly worthy of its ownership.

  With a sudden swing, he lofted the sword, then arced it downward. The sword sang as it sliced the air. Ash pivoted, lightly jabbed, then practiced a move he'd once been able to do in his sleep. He was less graceful at it now, with both his clumsier left hand as well as the tight muscles on the right side of his body trying to interfere. But he still managed it.

  Murmuring a soft grunt of approval, Eamon gave a half smile in pleased acknowledgement. In response, Ash jabbed again, then engaged in a mock swing toward Eamon. His fealty man nodded but inclined his chin to the practice mat. “On your own,” he said, watching Ash and the sword with assessing eyes. “Run through a practice sequence.”

  Quirking his lips, pleased himself with how right the sword felt in his grip, Ash moved onto the mat and easily launched into a familiar sequence of steps, thrusts, and parries, fighting the air around him while Eamon watched. During one such parry, he abruptly thought of a set of lush lips, wild red hair springing out around a face skimmed with a shimmering design that lent it a unique, stunning beauty. The thought brought a quick smile to his face. Then he saw again her sudden recoil from him, the horror on her face. His dragon whuffled deep within him, sounding part aggrieved, part sorrowful. Stumbling mid-move, Ash cursed beneath his breath. He purposely shoved aside the image of the unknown woman.

  He could feel the power of the sword thrum, seeming to light the air with a crackle of energy. However, no corresponding surge of power rose within him. Creasing his brow, he skimmed through all his moves again, this time more carefully. Yes, the sword's power was there. It was a good addition to his gold hoard as well as his personal family legacy. Yet an important aspect of it was missing. The part when the power transferred to Ash, helping make him stronger.

  Helping him heal.

  Ash swore as he ran again through the entire sequence, this time with deadly focus and a grim set to his mouth. Eamon, too, wore an austere look as Ash clearly woke the power of the sword, yet it did not fully reciprocate.

  Something blocked it.

  “Damn it!” Ash's snarl whipped through the room. He stopped, holding the sword in midair before him. It glittered and gleamed, the soft pulse of dragon magic coming from it in steady, undeniable waves of power. Yet the power simply did not extend farther from the sword than immediately around it.

  Useless for Ash's needs.

  He stood on the mat, breathing steadily. The weakness of the scarred side of his body suddenly felt more pronounced. His right leg seemed tight, heavy. His right arm ineffectual.

  In a word, he felt broken. Impaired. Unable to heal, unable to move forward. Unable to release the power of his ancestors from the sword crafted by their hands. Certainly unable to draw the positive, interested attention of a woman like the beauty he'd come across in the parking lot the oth
er night.

  Jaw tensed, he regarded the blade, safely held in his hand yet still locked away from him. Long moments passed while Ash contemplated everything he lacked and everything that might be still possible. If only he could find the answer and unleash the power of the sword. His mind spun through the possibilities. Somehow, there had to be a way.

  His fealty man must have been thinking the same thing. At the same moment, they both breathed, “The book.” The book and the sword had been sold together. They must work together somehow.

  Ash looked at Eamon, but Eamon had already headed on swift feet to the door.

  Impatience and yet another stirring of hope warred inside Ash as he waited. He realized within thirty seconds that the impatience would likely kill him, so he moved again through the practice sequence. He was nearly through it by the time Eamon came back, carefully ferrying the heavy, dark red leather-bound Book of the Dragonborn with him. He took it straight to Ash, holding it out as if in offering.

  Ash met him halfway across the mat, then paused with a startled chuckle. “I've no idea what to do,” he admitted, letting a sardonic grin creep out. “Wave the sword about and mutter ancient incantations while you pass your hand over the book and declare 'abracadabra'?”

  Eamon gave Ash an astounded look before allowing the rare guffaw to escape. “I am quite glad you haven't completely lost your sense of humor.” He shook his dark head as laughter quivered at the edge of his voice. “It quite brightens my days.”

  “Stuff it,” Ash tossed back easily. The levity felt good. Sighing, he looked at the book for a long, critical moment. Finally, he shook his head and simply held the sword out toward the book. “Abracadabra?” he offered in a doubtful tone.

  Giving Ash a bemused look, Eamon shrugged as he held the book out so it touched the sword. He quickly murmured a few sentences in a dialect of Gaelic so old and obscure that Ash stared at him, lost. Looking back up and catching Ash's gaze, Eamon shrugged again. “I may have just invited the sword out to drinks and dancing with this old book, for all I know.” His eyes suddenly twinkled with mirth. “It's something my ma used to say to my da. She never told us kids the exact meaning. Said it was words from the ancients and we weren't to concern ourselves with it.”